50 Snapshots
by Rhianwen
Summary: A collection of tinytiny short stories featuring Mirage and Syndrome. Some angst, some humour, some neither, some both. Stretching from premovie to postmovie. Starts with a death, ends with a birth, because they've never done anything the right way around
1. Air

Air

* * *

Disclaimer: The characters described, appearing, or mentioned are not the creations of the author, who is not so good at the "making up interesting characters" thing.

* * *

He can tell that it's bothering her. He might be engrossed, but he's not_ heartless,_ although the spandex-clad woman whose bones are just starting to give under the steady, relentless pressure of the Omnidroid's massive claw might disagree. He can see that Mirage is turning pale and faintly green, and he can see the horrified tears gathering at the corners of her eyes. 

It's not a surprise, either – it's the first time he's ever let her watch this with him, so it'd probably just be scary if she took it all in with a maniacal giggle.

But he knows she's stubborn as hell, too, and she'd probably trade places with the broken, bloodied heap on the jungle floor before she'd admit that she's about to be sick or she's going to wake up screaming from the nightmares for weeks. So it doesn't surprise him, either, when she stands abruptly, but doesn't scream or cry or beg him to call off the Omnidroid, just heads for the door, gait as upright and graceful as ever, after muttering something about needing some air.

* * *

Notes: Okay, this is kind of a reworking of my Syndrome/Mirage entry for the 1sentence livejournal community. I really frickin' loved that thing, but I didn't want to submit a big, random, meandering block of fifty sentences, each for a different theme. So, I decided on fifty tiny random, meandering drabbles that have no conceivable beginning or end! Or point! Yaay! Go me! Each one serves as a snapshot of Syndrome and Mirage...doing something. Most likely cute, as I am me. Some are fluff, some are angst, some are a combination, and some are just silly. And...this note just got longer than the chapter. Crap. 


	2. Apples

Apple

* * *

He never eats breakfast.

That's just how it is. Never has, never saw the point.

As for that ten servings of fruits and vegetables, he _really_ never did that.

But damned if it isn't just easier to grab one of the bright red apples from the green glass bowl on their counter than to put up with her silent, concerned disapproval every morning when he hurries off to work without eating something. She's almost as stubborn as he is, anyway, so there's no way she'll accept it if he tries to explain that he doesn't do breakfast because it just makes him hungrier by lunch, or that _ten servings of fruits and vegetables a day_ means other people.

"Okay, fine, _Eve_," he calls huffily to get her attention as he passes the kitchen table where she's placidly drinking her coffee with a tiny smile that suggests she's already paying more attention that he thinks. "You win."

* * *


	3. Beginning

Beginning

* * *

He hasn't tried to get Mirage to cook for him since their very first months together. It's not because he buys into any of that _woman as Goddess, above menial tasks_ garbage, or because he wants to protect her dignity. On the contrary, Mirage is kind of fun when she's all mad over some perceived indignity. And he'd pay a hell of a lot to see her sashaying around in a frilly pink apron. 

Especially without other stuff on under it. _Whoo-ha!_

But he's still recovering from the last time, when he whined and pleaded despite her alarmed protests that she had no desire to poison him yet, until she agreed to make him something simple to keep him quiet. The pangs of indigestion were the stuff of nightmares, and just what it took to make him believe that it could be "that bad".

So, he just doesn't ask her anymore.

* * *


	4. Bugs

Bugs

* * *

The last time she heard him _ask nicely_ was also the last time he heard her _giggle_.

After several seconds of staring, disgusted and uneasy, at the huge, hairy spider making its way across the floor, he sent her a pleading look and pushed a box of tissues towards her. She stifled a laugh, both at his squirmy little _ew, a spider_ dance and at his pouting in response to her laughter, as she nudged their unwanted visitor onto a sheet of paper and carried it outside.

"Yeah, well, just wait until we have snakes in here," she overheard him mutter around crossed arms and drawn brows, and hurriedly apologized to make sure he wouldn't get one as a pet, just to be mean.

* * *


	5. Coffee

Coffee

* * *

She still hates the restless, nervous sensation she gets when she drinks too much coffee, despite the years it's taken her to pick up the habit. 

He still grimaces a little whenever there's not enough cream and sugar in his, despite the effort he's gone to, trying to acquire a taste for black coffee.

But he maintains that you can't run a company like this without the caffeine, and it only takes one day of trying to cope without it to make her agree, so they put on another pot and add to the gallons they've drunk together over the years.

* * *


	6. Dark

Dark

* * *

When he found out that she sleeps with the lights on whenever he's gone and started to laugh, it wasn't to be mean. It just hit him as funny that a girl who's learned to fire a gun without a flinch at the noise or the blood, who's spent more time spying and seducing and bribing and hacking into confidential systems and files over the past year than she has sleeping, can possibly be afraid of the dark. 

When she glared icily at him, wondering aloud if she should tell him that it's for fear of the ghosts of those she's helped to eliminate because it's _all part of the job_, he stopped laughing immediately.

Since then, he makes it a point to take her along when he needs to be away.

* * *


	7. Despair

Despair

* * *

_When he's finished growing up_. 

She's been promising herself for years.

_When he's finished growing up._

He'll see how silly he's being someday, wasting all this time on needless pettiness and cruelty.

_When he's finished growing up._

He could earn the respect he wants easily through the creativity and skill and sheer brilliance that have made her his devotee and more.

_When he's finished growing up._

There's really no point in putting so much effort into a carefully designed and percariously structured scheme to seize respect through dishonest means, at the cost of innocent lives – he'll see that someday.

_When he's finished growing up._

But lately, she's begun to stop short and stare in disbelief at the naivete and selfishness revealed in this or that absurdly simplistic statement. He sounds just like an overindulged little boy, sulking the first time he found someone who wouldn't give him his own way.

_When will he be finished growing up?_

Maybe she's been hoping in vain all this time, waiting for something that will never happen.

_Because some people never grow up._

_

* * *

_


	8. Doors

Doors

* * *

It's probably the worst argument they've had yet. 

He hates when she flirts with other people, men or women.

Even if it's a ruse to get information or resources.

Even when he's asked her to do it.

So it should have been no surprise that the sight of his Mirage talking and laughing _very_ intimately with the poor stupid arrogant man who's slated for an encounter with an Omnidroid tomorrow, nearly sent him through the roof.

It went on for almost an hour, shouted obscenities and blunt objects sailing across the room, and every delicately cruel slur she can think of, striking everywhere he is most sensitive, until she stormed off, trying to convince herself that a shock of fear is really just anger, to this empty room.

As the door, carefully and thoroughly locked, is torn free and tossed casually away to knock down another wall, she remembers a little too late that he sees closed doors not as hints, but as challenges.

* * *


	9. Drink

Drink

* * *

She doesn't generally drink too much, and he doesn't generally drink at all; but tonight is special, and they're still making up after the fight that destroyed the spare bedroom in their personal living quarters. 

Neither of them could have believed that they would miss the other so much, but they did, and now it's over, so this calls for some celebrating and far more wine than either one of them is used to.

Neither one of them is completely certain, either, how they ended up stumbling into the bedroom, his bedroom for the past week and a half but theirs again, laughing like children at everything and nothing, and waking up the next morning, tangled together, aching, and still half-dressed.

But they've been closer since then than they ever had before, so she's certainly not about to complain, any more than he is.

* * *


	10. Duty

Duty

* * *

One of the things she loved about him right away was his complete willingness to admit that his cruelty and selfishness are just that.

It's really sickening, all those people who try to obscure such things behind the title of duty and claim that they're good people, hand forced by bad circumstances.

She's been growing disillusioned as of late; still, she can't help but see a man who is honest and forthright about his own tendency for the sadistic in a far better light than the men who pull long faces before a crowd and lament that nothing could be done, all the while inwardly cackling, hands in their pockets, fondling themselves in delight of their cleverness.

If she has ever been deceived as to his tendencies and intentions, she thinks ruefully, it was willful self-deception, and he had no part of it.

* * *


	11. Earth

Earth

* * *

"I grabbed all those stupid potted plants of yours last time you were there to finish packing. They're in the shed. And I set aside some land, so you can make a garden, if you want," he tells her indifferently, breaking the silence hanging tense between them after the events of earlier. 

It was her own fault, getting too friendly with the woman when she knew why they'd brought her there in the first place, but that didn't mean he hadn't felt like a heel when she'd choked on a sob on her way out of the control room after the confirmation of target terminated had come back through the monitor.

But this will make amends; show her that he cares. He's willing to make sacrifices to make her happy.

She glares at him sharply.

"Those _stupid plants_ are probably better company than you."

He watches, slightly stunned, as she goes back to her book without a word. This is kind of a far cry from being melted by his kindness.

Then, as she stands abruptly and frostily announces that she'll be outside, planting, he shakes his head slightly.

Women.

* * *

End Notes: Okay, I have absolutely no idea where I got the impression that Mirage is an obsessive gardener. But it's cute to me. Gives me an excuse to imagine Denim-Cutoffs!Mirage. :D 


	12. End

End

* * *

It took a long time, but eventually, she's learned to stop predicting the beginning of the end every time they argue and he locks her out of the system for a day or two. 

The last time, he caught her in the middle of packing, and locked her in their closet, as airy and roomy as her apartment in college, until she promised not to leave.

"_Buddy, this is stupid! Now, unlock the door!"_

"_Forget it."_

"_You can't keep me in here forever."_

"_You know what you have to say."_

"_You're acting like a child."_

"_So, is that a yes or a no?"_

"_You're not going to bully me into answering!"_

"_Then have fun living in the closet; I'm going to get some more work done. I'll bring you a sandwich when I think of it."_

"_Buddy, for God's sake--"_

"_It was a stupid argument, Mirage. Running away because of an argument is just as stupid as locking you in the closet."_

"_..."_

"_It was the only way to keep you here long enough to listen to me."_

"_..."_

"_No one ever listens unless I make them, and this is important, so I had to make you listen."_

"_...Buddy?"_

"_Yeah?"_

"_You can unlock the door now. I won't leave."_

"_Promise?"_

"_Promise."_

He had unlocked the door after that, because _a promise is a promise_, after all, and it was the end of something, but not the end of a relationship; just the end of an argument, because they were both too busy, trying to _cling_ without being _clingy_, to remember why they were fighting.

* * *

End Notes: This is a far cry from the five-word sentence it was originally, but I think it's my favourite one so far. Mostly because I suspect that I am on "the crack." 


	13. Fall

Fall

* * *

He doesn't have time for this falling in love garbage. He's a busy man, you know?

When he kisses her good morning and good night each day and remembers her birthday, it's because women love all that sappy, romantic garbage, and the most useful assistant is a happy assistant.

And sure, he listens to her input, but that's just because she's really smart. He wouldn't have wasted his time with her if she wasn't.

And yeah, he grips her hand tightly whenever they're out walking somewhere, but that's just because he wants everyone to know this one's taken, so back off.

Even when there's no one else around; better to be safe, right?

She's too good to lose.

And if he kinda freaks out when one of the guys tries to get too friendly with her, it's just because it sets a bad precedent, letting the help mess with the boss's things. It has nothing to do with the imploring, panicked look she's sending him.

Sometimes he wonders uneasily if these things are becoming a little too natural, and if maybe the pretence has become reality.

But he's never cared much for acting, he reflects, wrapping one arm around her and brushing his lips gently over her temple while she sleeps, so for now, he'll just go with it.

* * *


	14. Fire

Fire

* * *

He doesn't let her drink anymore, because every time she does, she seems to have the uncontrollable urge to pour a bucket of water on his head.

_SPLOOSH!_

_"__What the hell was that for?" he demands angrily, swiping at the icy cold dribbling down the back of his neck_.

_"To put out the fire," she explains solemnly, the bucket dangling from one hand as she watches water dripping steadily from his hair, drenched and drooping sadly. "If you have to use hair gel, you should use a less flammable kind."_

Yeah; not his idea of a good time. Figures that he had to hook up with a silly drunk instead of a sexy drunk.

But she doesn't seem inclined to drink anymore, anyway, and he's glad. He doesn't know which would be worse: arguing with her about something stupid, or ending up with a bucket of water on his head, followed by the mess they somehow end up making when he chases her around the room with a cordless hair dryer, shouting _I thought you were frozen!_

* * *

End Notes: Blech. This one didn't translate well into a sorta-drabble. Oh, well. It was still kinda cute.  



	15. Flexible

Flexible

* * *

Her mother always used to say that _like takes to like._

It confused her a little, when everyone else seemed to say that _opposites attract_, but she thinks she's starting to understand. On the surface, she knows, she and Buddy are almost as opposite as two people can be: he childlike, innocent, and brutally honest, and she older than her years, cynical, and deceptive for the sheer fun of it. But maybe they recognized from the first time they met that they had more in common than they might think, and became drawn to it in each other.

For instance, they both exemplifiy, in their own way, the word _stubborn_. Two spoiled, overindulged children who had yet to learn that the world would not be kind to those who could not bend.

Over the years they've spent together, they've been teaching one another the meaning of compromise. And if she's learning faster than he is, well, don't girls always learn faster?

* * *

End Notes: Still likin' this one. I think I actually like the expanded version better than the sentence. I know my view of Li'l Buddy being spoiled rotten is horrifically unpopular, but I just can't see the kid any other way. Spoiled materially, but neglected emotionally: that's my own little fangirl extrapolation of his childhood. That's kind of how I see Mirage, too. 

Oh, yes; and it was really hard to think of The Incredibles, flexible, and _not_ immediately think Elastigirl. :)


	16. Flying

Flying

* * *

"Geez. How long is this flight supposed to be?"

"Calm down, Buddy."

"You're not supposed to call me that, you know."

"I thought it might sound silly to ask _Syndrome_ to calm down like a rowdy little boy. Although, if _Syndrome_ is _being_ a rowdy little boy..."

Muffled laughter, and a failed attempt to look outraged.

"The guys are going to think I'm totally whipped."

The sound of one hand gently patting another.

"Oh, don't worry. You know you'll just have them killed if they annoy you."

"That's right. My faithful gal can take care of anyone."

"Buddy."

"Syndrome."

"Syndrome. The pilot's giving us a funny look. Remember, we have a _real person_ flying with us today."

A grin.

"Hey, that just gave me an idea."

"Oh, no."

"No, it's a _good_ idea this time!

"Alright..."

"Well, I was just thinking; we've been taking these flights for ages now, and we still haven't joined the Mile-High Club..."

* * *


	17. Food

Food

* * *

They hardly ever have time to do this, meet for lunch like this, but they're both beginning to feel like they're sleeping with a stranger, so they've made a point to do it today. 

He snickers as he looks up from his meal to find his dining companion skipping straight to dessert – not a hint of real food on her side of the table, but a little dish of ice cream.

"What is it with women and sweets, anyway?"

She looks up, startled.

"What?"

"Seriously. You're all, like, obsessed with sweets."

"It's something to do with evolution, I think," she yawns. "You'd know better than I would – you're the scientist."

"Well, yeah, we evolved to like sweet things because the sugar is carbohydrate and provides the most energy, but men evolved that way, too," he points out.

"I suppose there's only one solution."

He scoffs.

"What, that whole girls are made of sugar and spice thing?"

She hides a grin.

"You actually believe that garbage?"

"No," emphatically. "I hate kids – I hated them even when I was a kid. Girls are the worst."

"Thanks," she huffs.

"Hey, I didn't mean you," he protests. "Unless you have something you want to tell me about your age…"

"I can tell you the _real _reason, if you like."

"Oh, yeah?

"It takes us far more energy to put up with men than it takes men to put up with themselves."

He gives an indignant shout, and now they're both expending a lot of energy, he in flinging green peas across the table at her, and she in dodging a barrage of flying food, both laughing like children and making a mental note to do this lunch date thing again, soon.

* * *


	18. Foot

Foot

* * *

He can still pinpoint the exact moment that she really caught his attention, outside of _hey, nice, bet someone's going to get lucky with that tonight._

Bored out of his mind after a gathering had turned into a dance and he wanted nothing more than to escape, he noticed out of the corner of his eye a tall, almost frail-looking pale-haired woman dancing with a portly middle-aged gentleman.

He looked again more closely, flinching in expectation of a painfully shrill, angry outburst, when a large, meaty hand drifted down to rest heavily on the girl's backside.

But it hadn't come; and seconds later, he had had given an appreciative shout of laughter when she had opted against bursting into tears or temper in favour of smiling angelically before bringing one high, narrow heel down on his foot as hard as she could, and then apologizing profusely and helping her dance partner find an ice pack.

_Pure evil,_ he thought with a tremendous grin, making a mental note to get her number before the night was through.

* * *


	19. Grave

Grave

* * *

He can understand why it bothered her to watch the first few times, but, he thinks, rolling his eyes as she retches slightly at the first sound of breaking bones, enough is enough. This isn't new to her anymore, and if she's not used to it by now, she never will be.

As long as it doesn't convince her to do something stupid, like put his plans in jeopardy because her conscience is getting to her, he supposes it doesn't really matter if she likes it or not, but it would be kind of nice to have someone to enjoy this with. It's _fun_, and it's _satisfying_, because the death count is a measurable way to track his progress toward the success of his plans. And he wonders angrily why she can't see that.

Or at least, why she insists upon trying to ruin it for him.

So later on, when the mess has been cleaned up and that greenish tint has left her skin and that look of cringing, disgusted fear has left her eyes, he tells her:

"I'm not gonna let you watch anymore if you keep looking so miserable afterwards, Mirage; you take all the fun out of brutal violence."

* * *


	20. Green

Green

* * *

They've been together long enough that she's come to learn his quirks almost as well as her own. Including his hatred of wearing sweaters, or anything else that doesn't come with a cape, really, and that's why she doesn't buy him clothes for his birthday very often.

That's also why she stops short, floored, when she sneaks into his work area, turns from the desk where she's just set down a tray with a fresh cup of coffee and a sandwich, and catches sight of something deep leaf-green and cable-knit.

"You're actually wearing it. I knew the colour would look good."

He winces visibly, and when he turns, his expression is sulky, and all the more theatrically so to cover up a hint of something sheepish but nevertheless half-proud at the surprised delight that she's trying just as hard to hide.

"It's just because it's so damn cold it here because some _idiot _forgot to close the windows, so don't get too excited."

But despite his snappish reply, she can't seem to stop smiling the whole way back to the control rooms.

Not least, because his work area doesn't _have_ any windows, and was as ungodly hot today as it always is.

Maybe she'll push her luck a bit and get him that brown leather jacket for Christmas.

* * *


	21. Head

Head

* * *

He's always liked challenges and puzzles; anything too easy to figure out was just _boring. _

_S_o it only makes sense that she was the same – confusing, guarded, mysterious, with eyes that could be mirrors for all they revealed of her thoughts.

And he _likes_ her that way, thinks it's kind of fun trying to guess what she's thinking and being totally, totally wrong most of the time.

But it does mean that he's got to do a little bit of work to be extra unpredictable, because knowledge is power, and he knows that she can read him at a glance.

And that's the part he'd change if he could; he suspects that if she ever gains an advantage over him, she won't hesitate to use it, his beautiful, charming, ruthless colleague and lover.

But then again, he's never been very good at reading her.

* * *


	22. Hollow

Hollow

* * *

She can tell that he's distracted tonight.

Not for any lack of effort on her part. She's thrown everything at him she can think of: skimpy white satin, inviting smiles, suggestions whispered into his ear that she'll be in the bedroom if he wants her.

His reply: _okay, babe, I'll be up in a while. I'll try not to wake you when I come in_.

With a sigh, she climbs abruptly out of his lap.

_I thought you might like to join me_, she tosses back over her shoulder, trying very hard not to display annoyance or disappointment, _but it's alright; you're busy_.

And he finally gets it.

_Yeah...yeah, okay, I'll be right there._

But he still seems distracted. His tongue parts her lips and his hands trace the slight curve of her waist as skilfully as always, but there's something about it that feels mechanical.

Until his mouth brushes the hollow at the base of her throat, and a strong shudder runs through her, nerve endings seeming to leap immediately to life all over her body, and she gasps sharply and pulls him closer. And if his tightening grip at her hair and at her breast, his ragged breathing against her ear, and the sound of ripping satin are any indication, he's not so distracted anymore.

* * *


	23. Honour

Honour

* * *

"Hey, babe?"

"Hmm?"

"Forgot to tell you; I need to leave in a couple days. I don't know how long this'll take, so you're in charge until I get back, okay?"

She stares, rather stunned.

"I've only been here a month, Buddy."

"And?" he prompts absently.

"_And_, an honour like that should probably go to someone with seniority."

"Maybe," he shrugs. "But those are the benefits of sleeping with the boss."

"Buddy!"

"C'mon, sweetheart, you know I trust you more than the rest of these yutzes. If anyone gives you a hard time about it, just...like, show some skin. I guarantee, if you prance around in a mini-skirt for a couple hours, they'll try to move a goddamn mountain for you."

She laughs.

"Well, thank-you. Your faith in me is touching."

"Faith, nothing," he snorts. "You're smart and you're hot. That's the best kind of person to leave in charge of a group of idiots like these. They'll be too busy turning all Boy Scout to try to impress you that they won't have time to cause trouble."

This is a reasonable explanation, of course, and it won't occur to her until later that there might be another.

When she's going about her additional duties, glowing with pride that she's been trustworthy enough to earn them so quickly, she wonders if that was his intent: to control with the illusion of giving control.

Which hardly seems fair; aren't illusions supposed to be _her_ department?

* * *

End Notes: I am Canadian, so 'honour' contains a superfluous 'u' when I am spelling it. That is all. :P


	24. Hope

Hope

* * *

When she was a little girl, her mother always told her to hope for the best and expect the worst, and it was good advice, because with him, both happen on almost a daily basis.

For example, some mornings she might wake up to see the room looking distinctly as though their closet had thrown up from an hour of his poking and diving through it (despite wearing the same thing every day), but when she returned that evening, dreading the task of cleaning up, she'd find the room immaculate. And if she opened the closet door to find everything shoved haphazardly inside, well, it was the thought that counted, right?

Another morning, she might wake up to fresh coffee and breakfast already made – made well, which had come as no small shock the first time – and then return in the evening to find his entire workshop moved into their bedroom, _just for a couple days, until I can clean up from that explosion._

She realizes that her concept of the _best_ and the _worst_ have become a little skewed, but it's almost a relief, to know that trivial little things can still alternately irritate and thrill her.

* * *


	25. Light

Light

* * *

He's trying really, really hard not to laugh; he really is.

But whenever he glances sideways at her expression, severely annoyed and just a shade short of a pout, he recalls the funniest sight he's seen in years.

Mirage, clad in little Lycra shorts (okay, so that doesn't make him laugh, just grin a lot), throwing her entire weight against the trainer he hired to teach her how to fight properly at long last, in attempt to take him to the ground, and just kind of bouncing off a six-foot-five wall of muscle.

Finally, she comes to a stop and wheels on him in exasperation.

"Buddy, if you don't stop cackling like that, I'm going to punch you!"

And he promptly loses it again.

* * *


	26. Lost

Lost

* * *

_Everyone_ gets lost around the complex in their first few weeks, and she was no exception . 

The place is cavernous, and confusing as hell by design, and she knew from her first look around that it would take her ages to learn her way down a straight hallway without getting totally turned around.

_That's okay_, he laughed, _it happens to everyone_.

With certain differences.

The most important difference was, he didn't spend her first few weeks giving her confusing directions to the wrong places just for fun, and then yelling at her when she showed up late.

_Another advantage_, he shrugs uneasily when she asks with a teasing smile if he's this understanding with everyone, _of sleeping with the boss._

_Well_, she says, smile widening to a grin when she sees his discomfort, _I'll have to make a point to do it again very soon. Solidify my special privileges, you know_.

* * *


	27. Metal

Metal

* * *

Lately, when he thinks he's going to be working on something into the night, he keeps his work area locked.

And, as she makes sure to remind him with great irritation the morning after she finds out, he hasn't given her the new code yet.

He tries to evade the issue, because he can't exactly tell her _why _she's suddenly being shut out of somewhere when she's used to unrestricted access.

One too many times, she's slipped in to offer a polite suggestion that three in the morning is late enough, and he's let her stay. And despite his vehement assertions that he wouldn't let some _woman_ distract him, he's always found himself shoving her back against the nearest solid object, and all that cold metal digging into uncomfortable places _has_ to spoil the mood.

And the last thing a guy wants is _anything_ that gets his woman out of the mood.

* * *


	28. New

New

* * *

Sometimes, the truth is hard to accept.

That's why she thinks that maybe she's always known _somewhere_ in her mind, but just refused to look directly at it because she would have to deal with it if she did.

She can tell herself all she likes that she's always assumed, and genuinely believed, that there was something more behind it, some shining ideal that she just couldn't quite grasp, that made his bizarre crusade against every Super he could find an unpleasant necessity.

But it isn't nearly as surprising as it should be, the pure gleeful sadism in his eyes as he taunts the object of fifteen years obsessive hatred with the death of wife and children, feeling justified by some imagined slight that she wishes desperately she could believe was enough to prompt such cruelty.

So maybe the revelation that there really _isn't_ anything beyond the surface, isn't all that new after all.

* * *


	29. Old

Old

* * *

It's not until several weeks after she's left the island and its shadowy corners and bitter, terrified, and bewildered henchmen and memories, both ugly and beautiful, far behind, that she manages to fully absorb the news of his death. 

She's trying to will herself to sleep in the small, beautifully decorated apartment she's had since fresh out of college, very glad now for the strange compulsion that led her to mail the landlord the rent promptly at the beginning of each month for the past three years.

But now that it's hit, it's hit hard, and even though she thinks she probably couldn't move if she wanted to, she knows she won't be able to sleep for weeks thinking about it.

_If she'd encouraged to give the plan a bit more polish, the accident could have been avoided._

_If she hadn't shifted her loyalties to a man she barely knew and a family she didn't know at all, he might have gotten his moment and been content._

_If she had stayed near him, he might not have tried to go after the child._

_If she had told him years ago that the cape made him look even shorter, he would have flung it off in an instant._

She almost laughs at that thought, but loses the energy before she can form more than a weak cough.

Anyway, she decides, reaching decisively for a small bottle on her night table and carefully measuring out three of the little white pellets the doctor told her to use for occasional periods of insomnia and nightmares, it's late, and these thoughts are getting old.

* * *


	30. Peace

Peace

* * *

Gradually, she lets herself sink into the lulling, unbroken tranquility of an existence that she can't quite call a _life_ yet: a steady, routine, utterly dull job as a legal secretary, and a few gradually emerging friendships through work and with other girls in the apartment building. 

She's even been thinking of taking a gardening course.

Or some self-defense lessons.

Just now, she is feeling more or less composed, although bland in the sort of way that she's always found to happen when she purposely focuses on uninteresting details to avoid everything under the surface.

She can't help feeling complacent and amused, too, at how easy it's been to slip quickly and quietly back into the world.

She's just fished her keys out of her purse, when a squeal of laughter, followed by an indignant shout, and more laughter, startles her.

Mrs. Gibson's little girls. Adorable little carrot-tops, just like their Mama.

As the three redheaded children go careening past her door, she leans with her forehead pressed against the cool wood, until the waves of pain subside.

* * *


	31. Poison

Poison

* * *

She should hate him.

When she helped Mr. Incredible and his family escape the island, it was because she hated Buddy's plans and goals, and with every passing day, he drew a little closer to _being_ those goals and nothing else.

She should be glad that a dangerous man has been removed from a world that he cared nothing for, but had too much power to hurt.

But it seems that she's not going to be let off quite so easily.

The taint placed on the thought of him by his petty vindictiveness and disregard for all life but his own has only managed to stain backwards though time and ruin memories long past along with recent, now that she knows this stranger he became was always part of him

So now, when she mourns for him, she's mourning for the destruction of years of memories at the same time.

She should hate him.

But what she _should_ do has rarely been what she _does_, and despite firm resolve to _move on_, she ends up crying herself to sleep one more night.

* * *

End Notes: Okay; this one has been very much along the same vein as the last two, but bear with me; something new coming next drabblet thingy. :)


	32. Pretty

Pretty

* * *

He's had a hell of a week. 

Between the work it's been in staying hidden and the effort it's taken to exercise some unaccustomed subtlety in looking to locate her, he's all but exhausted. Not to mention, annoyed that he spent all that time checking out all possibilities, only to find her at her old place.

He's not sure if he admires the audacity or pities the stupidity.

And that's not even counting the burns all over his face that itch and hurt all the time because he keeps forgetting the special cream, and the echoes of pain from fractures healed for months now.

And the fact that he had to do it all alone because _someone_ was too busy covering her own tracks to help him.

And she thinks _she's_ got it bad!

He readjusts at the edge of the bed and watches his unwitting hostess sleep, his resentment gradually fading as his eyes catch on those tears on her cheeks.

But he still doesn't feel particularly bad, waiting so long to come find her, because she's made her own misery, leaping headfirst into the mourning before bothering to make damn sure he was dead.

And anyway, there's something about those little wet trails gleaming in the moonlight that's kind of pretty.

* * *


	33. Rain

Rain

* * *

"I'm glad to see you're still waking up in a good mood," he calls, glaring resentfully after her retreating back. 

Okay, so maybe it's partly his fault, scaring the hell out of her when she woke up to find a man leaning over her in the darkness, but throwing him to the floor and leaping after him to cover him with a rain of blows was totally overreacting.

She emerges from the kitchen a moment later with an ice pack, and he winces as she helps him settle it carefully over a quickly-forming lump.

He takes the ice pack, and she drops to the couch next to him with a long sigh, rubbing her sore knuckles, because she still hasn't got around to those self-defense classes, and never learned to throw a punch properly.

"Missed you, you reckless idiot," she finally mutters against his shoulder, and he freezes as something warm and wet soaks into the fabric of his shirt.

"Uh…Gabi," he calls hesitantly, her given name coming instinctively as he rests one hand gently on her hair.

And then the tears come anew, and harder, until he has to slap her to calm her down.

* * *

End Notes: Woot! I found a new name to give her!  



	34. Regret

Regret

* * *

It seems like she's found a lot to be sorry for in the past few days. 

She's sorry she didn't trust him to get out of it alive.

She's sorry she didn't try to find him, alive or dead, and left some of the straggling personnel left on the island to notice his homing signal.

She's sorry she wasn't there to help salve his burns and keep him company when it hurt too much to think.

In fact, she thinks ruefully, watching his expression grow stormy and brooding as his eyes light on a newspaper headline about a recent act of heroism by the four people he hates most in the world, the only thing she's not sorry for is the only thing that he really wants her to be.

* * *

End Notes: This one because I don't exactly see where Mirage was a bad person for trying to help the Incredibles stop Syndrome, and because I don't generally think that _caring_ about someone has to mean 'believing unquestioningly in everything they do'. And anyway, they've both got a lot to forgive here. ;)  



	35. Roses

Roses

* * *

But it could just be that she's not the only one who's sorry for a lot lately. 

She's barely finished putting her keys away and hanging up her coat after work, and he's there, behind her, something tucked carefully behind his back.

"Hey, sweetheart. How was your day?"

"Fine," she replies cautiously, trying to sneak a peak at whatever he's holding.

He notices, and turning bright red and muttering something incomprehensible, he shoves a single delicately made shining metallic rose at her.

"What's this about?" she starts to ask, and then jumps nearly a foot in the air as the petals spread apart a little, and a tinkling music box melody begins.

He laughs, then grows sheepish.

"Uh, don't go looking for your toaster anytime soon, okay?"

She lifts an eyebrow.

"You made this out of my toaster?"

"The thing wasn't working properly, anyway," he shrugs.

She bites back a smile.

"Bored, hmm?"

"What, you don't like it?"

"No, I like it." After a moment's pause, during which she turns the small object over and remembers why she's awed by this man's skill and imagination, she continues. "Do you want to go see a movie tonight?"

"Sure," he agrees enthusiastically, then grins. "While we're out, I should pick you up a new toaster – I kind of broke the other one yesterday, trying to make it butter while it toasts."

* * *

End Notes: FLUFF! Sorry about this; it was reallyreallyreally cute in my head. :D  



	36. Secret

Secret

* * *

It's a good thing that her life has made her adept at the lying she always had a certain natural flair for, because it seems like she's keeping something from almost everyone she knows lately. 

She conveniently neglects to mention to Helen and Bob that her recently accquired a roommate that just happens to be their self-declared nemesis and their infant son's would-be kidnapper.

She lets it slip her mind to tell Helen that she's sold the apartment, and that she and the aforementioned "roomie" are right in the middle of packing to move to this nice, rundown little cottage a few miles from the city.

She very, very carefully doesn't mention to Buddy that she has at least weekly contact with the Parrs.

Never for a moment does it occur to her to get everything out in the open, or that lying is lying, and what she calls a wilful exclusion of the truth is lying, and lying almost always ends up making a mess.

* * *


	37. Snakes

Snakes

* * *

That's the problem with these old houses: sometimes, not all the residents are so willing to leave.

They watch together as their tiny, slithery green housemate darts a little too close to the edge of her shoe.

"Why couldn't we just have mice, like everyone else around here?" she moans despairingly, rigid with the effort it takes not to shriek and hide behind him.

He says nothing, poking at the tiny creature with the broom handle, bright red with the effort it takes not to explode into laughter at the sight of his calm, dignified Mirage ready to bolt at the sight of a garter snake.

Once disaster has been averted and their tenant safely evicted, she gives a long sigh, nearly collapsing in relief.

"Is it too late to move back to the apartment?"

* * *


	38. Snow

Snow

* * *

"Hey, make sure you take your mittens when you leave for work," he calls to her over his shoulder, before shooting one more fierce glare at the steadily falling snow.

She grimaces briefly as she approaches with a cup of coffee for each of them.

"The weather's still bad?"

"Yeah," he replies sadly, taking the coffee and then pulling her arm over his shoulder. "Remind me why we used to get so excited about this?"

She gives a tiny shrug.

"Novelty, maybe?"

"I guess," he agrees sadly, moving to the closet and pulling out several warm woolen garments. "Three years on a tropical island'll do that to you."

* * *


	39. Solid

Solid

* * *

It's getting better.

Each day, it becomes a little easier to think about the dreams and goals that turned to roadkill, about a future that he counted on until its absence left him with nothing.

Well, almost nothing.

Another day, another little bit better.

But that doesn't mean there aren't still bad days, when he watches her leave out of the corner of his eye without a word and then rages at the unfairness of the world like a child, or that they don't come more often than the good days.

And when they come, he wonders how he ever thought he _had_ good days.

But sometimes things make sense at night the way they wouldn't in the day. Or maybe it's the other way around.

Doesn't matter.

Because when he wakes up from a nightmare of having _actually_ nothing instead of _almost _nothing, of pain and fire and loneliness, already fading into dim, terrifying shapes behind his eyelids, to find soft, sleep-warmed arms winding around him, blissfully reassuring and comfortingly real, he remembers.

He might be able to be pretty happy with his life after all, might give up his obsession with revenge for good, just as long as she stays put.

* * *


	40. Spring

Spring

* * *

The last of the snow is gone, and the days are getting longer. 

Any day now, he'll start running ideas past her, re-workings of old plans and completely new ones. And she'll firmly, kindly shoot them down, one by one, because they're _in no position to draw attention, Buddy, can't you understand that?_

The afternoons are getting warmer, and the grass is returning, green and lush, underfoot.

She waits, half-wincing and half-smiling every time he starts a statement with _I just had a great idea!_

When the birds return and the flowers start to bloom, bringing with them spring in full earnest, with still no mention from him of what they're going to do now, she doesn't know whether to be relieved or devastated.

It's just as well that she doesn't have to explain to him, quietly and a little sadly, why they'll never finish what he started, but at the same time it's really hard to see him just _drifting_ like this.

* * *


	41. Stable

Stable

* * *

"Hey, Gabi," he calls suddenly one day after summer and autumn and winter have passed, and another year and another, after she's given up waiting for it, so she doesn't even look up from her book. 

"Hmm?"

"Would I be correct in assuming that you managed to tuck away some of the money from my bigger accounts before they locked it all?"

She blushes slightly.

"What can I say? I never intended to touch it myself; it was before I found out what happened to you. I knew you didn't stand a chance, and I thought I could at least try to make sure you were comfortable while you were running and hiding."

He looks up sharply at this.

"Don't you mean _we_?"

"No," she replies flatly.

"What? Why?"

"I never expected you to come find me. I didn't think you cared enough anymore."

"Women," he mutters, rubbing his eyes. He watches her carefully until her features relax, and then continues. "I had an idea. You think we should go back to the island to see what's left of the facilities?"

"I'll have to quit my job," she says after a long moment of silence, carefully concealing her enthusiasm leaping instantly to life at this idea, "and I hate to do it, when we've just gotten settled."

"It's just a job."

"There won't be a lot left."

"That's fine. We'll start over."

"It's a dangerous idea."

"Who's going back there? I'm still _dead_, remember?"

"If they see activity, they might--"

"What exactly do you think I'm going to _do_?"

"I don't know; what _are_ you going to do?"

He laughs.

"I haven't been watching TV while you're out fetching and filing for your lawyer. I've got something in mind. Ever wanted to be a toy-maker?"

She smiles.

"A toy-maker."

"Yeah; you like kids, right? It's perfect. It'll be like before. Y-you know, sort of. You do the public crap, I'll come up with the ideas. We'll put the factory on the island. No one'll know I'm involved. They'll think you picked it all up from me or something."

"I highly doubt that."

"You worry too much. We'll work out the bugs when we get there."

A long silence. It's whimsical, and fanciful, and utterly, utterly impractical.

But it's something. Her smile grows.

"Works for me."

* * *


	42. Strange

Strange

* * *

"Goddamn cramped airplane bathroom," he mutters through gritted teeth, working frantically at the zipper at the back of her skirt. "How is anyone supposed to do it in here?"

"Just pull it up," she urges, taking his hand and placing it at her thigh, sliding their entwined hands upwards and bringing the hem with them.

"Yes, ma'am," he says with a grin that widens when he reaches her delicately pale blue lacy panties and she gasps softly at the feather-light brush of his fingers.

She works at the buckle of his belt, but he's not making it easy for her, mouth at her ear, nipping sharply, hand sliding up under the matching blue lacy cups to rub quick frantic circles over one rosy velvet-soft nipple. Long, slim fingers wrap firmly around the source of his willingness to put up with cramped conditions , and with a carefully quiet groan, he presses into her touch.

And soon enough, their clothes are pushed aside bunched uncomfortably but totally irrelevant, pushed haphazardly into the tiny sink, and the rest of the world outside of sweat-damp skin and whispered incoherent pleas, becomes likewise irrelevant, even when the ominous click of carelessly unlocked washroom door and a horrified cry sound behind them.

* * *

He flashes her a charmingly innocent smile with just a hint of mischief as she makes her way back down the aisle of the plane and slides into the seat next to him, as composed and impeccable as to give no sign of the rendezvous of fifteen minutes ago.

"Hey, did an old lady walk in on us?" he asks in a hushed voice.

She quickly withdraws a handkerchief and promptly has a coughing fit, but he caught a tiny quirk of a smile a second before her mouth became completely obscured.

"I think so." She clears her throat, and then grins impishly. "Welcome to the Mile-High Club."

He shakes his head.

"Freakin' weird tradition."

* * *

End Notes: Hehehe...please excuse the rampaging lemons. I can only hold them in check for so long. XD


	43. Summer

Summer

* * *

They could kick themselves, or each other, for not thinking of this before.

No one's been here in three years, and more, and the last time someone was here it was to shut the whole place down and take what was salvageable with the permission of a devastated assistant and lover who cared for approximately none of it without the man who created it; _of course _the air conditioning wouldn't work.

It's the middle of summer, on a tropical island; _of course_ it's going to be swelteringly, disgustingly hot.

They've spent three winters getting used to snow and wind; _of course_ it's going to seem even worse.

So maybe heat's not the worst thing that could happen to them, and when they consider _the worst thing that could happen to them_, they're pretty damn lucky that no one was waiting for them, no one's come to catch them unaware, they weren't found on the plane, or trying to rent a boat and go the rest of the way on their own.

But it doesn't stop him from complaining that those scraps she calls _shorts_ and _tee-shirts _and _sun-dresses_ she's been wearing the whole time they've spent rebuilding and directing construction are just making the heat worse.

* * *


	44. Taboo

Taboo

* * *

They've talked over almost all of it, everything that happened to leave him (almost) dead and (almost) reduce her permanently to a legal secretary.

How else are they going to pass the time when they wake up in the middle of the night to one of the pipes exploding and by the time they've got everything cleaned up they're both too wired to sleep again?

But there are still a few things they steer around, trying to be subtle but both acutely aware that there's something _there_, and aware that the other is avoiding it too.

Specifically, he doesn't want to bring up his throwing her carelessly to a man half-mad with grief and fury, because he knows she's probably still angry with him, even though he _tried_ to explain that he had it under control, would never have done it if he thought she was in real danger.

And really, she has no especial desire to hash out the issue of her response. She knows that he considers her unrepentant show of treachery and defiance, releasing that man and then helping him and his family to escape, a hell of an overkill. But she wholeheartedly disagrees, so it's safer not to bring it up.

Of course neither of them really _believes_ it, but for the sake of keeping the peace, they come to the unspoken agreement that they're _even now_.

* * *


	45. Ugly

Ugly

* * *

There were some things, lots of things actually, that he made sure to tell her, though. 

_I always meant to settle down someday, after I got my fair chance, and I always meant to do it with you._

_If he _had_ hurt you, I would've killed him. And the family._

_Did I ever mentioned that you looked really hot in that little black dress?_

But the most important was that it's kind of funny, how it took losing the comfort of her voice and touch and smile and company when he was alone and recovering from injuries and needed her the most, to bring him to the ugly realization that his tireless crusade for revenge made him an idiot at best. Something as stupid as revenge on a guy who didn't let a clueless twelve-year old charge blindly into battle brought him to the point of _really_ having nothing, and now that he's back to just _feeling _like he has nothing when he's being especially moody, he can appreciate it for what it is.

And it's the most important only _partly_ because he's always heard that chicks love this soppy stuff, and if it's the truth, hey, bonus.

* * *


	46. War

War

* * *

Of course she believes him when he says he's over his obsession with seeing that man and his family suffer. If for no other reason, then because when he started construction on the toy factory and then designs for the toys, he threw himself into it with an achingly familiar wholeheartedness.

He'd hardly have _time_ to be designing horrific and unstoppable weapons in there along with everything else he's given himself to do while she handles the _paperwork_.

Nevertheless, she doesn't like to take chances, so when she finds the door to his work area locked, there's only one thing to do.

Declaring immediate war on the possibility of a back-slide, she knocks lightly at the door.

"Buddy? Could you come out and help me with this zipper? I need a shower badly after that exploding whipped cream incident, and I've got it almost all the way down, but it looks like it's stuck; I'll either need to you to just rip the damn dress off or hold it in place while I try to wriggle out of it. And I thought you might rather help me yourself than have one of the men do it."

* * *


	47. Water

Water

* * *

Obviously, she's better at _distracting _him than he'd ever admit, because barely five minutes later, her back hits the tiled wall with a sharp thud, and the ripping of fabric fills the air until a well-shredded sundress lies in a little heap next to the shower, quickly joined by his clothes.

Soon enough, she stops being obnoxiously smug about it, though, because he's making it just about impossible to think about anything else, hands and mouth roaming as insistently over smooth dusky skin as hers over fair, lightly freckled, babysoft skin. vibrantly red hair streams with water and hangs down almost to his shoulders, mingling with silvery blonde as he pulls her closer, the one hand gripping the back of her neck, for another long, breathless kiss that promises to lead to more. It takes a little imagination, figuring out a way to do this in the shower without either of them slipping and sustaining head trauma or shattering the glass doors by falling through them, but eventually they find a way, heavily involving a white-knuckle grip on those towel-racks he put in for just this occasion, and through the roar of the water and clouds of steam, their cries reverberate off the tiled walls.

* * *

End Notes: Hee! More pseudo-lemony fun. What can I say? I'm an addict. :D 


	48. Welcome

Welcome

* * *

"You know, Buddy, these men are putting up with a lot to work here."

He blinks confusedly at her.

"Uh, what?"

"Think about it. They have a hell of a commute every day just to work in a toy factory."

"Hey, it could be worse; at least they don't have rush-hour traffic to deal with, being boated in."

"Alright, that's true, but it's still a two-hour flight each way, and I think you could do a little more to let them know you appreciate it."

"You mean, you think _you_ could do a little more. You're the boss, remember? I'm the genius behind the scenes – they don't even know I'm here."

"But you certainly make your presence felt in practical jokes."

"Oh, so I'm supposed to be some boring, normal, stuck in the mud employer?"

"No, but you _could_ stop building those pits into the floor."

"They're shallow!"

"Eight feet?"

"Hey, no one's died yet."

"Until now."

"Whoa! Someone died?"

She sighs as he tries very hard, and ultimately fails, to hold back a grin.

"Does this really warrant a celebration?"

"Look, sweetheart, it was a friendly hello. If a shallow eight-foot fall killed him, he was a wuss anyway."

She rolls her eyes.

"Of course; how silly of me. _Anyone_ could walk away from an eight-foot drop onto razor-sharp two-foot spikes."

* * *


	49. Winter

Winter

* * *

"Hey, Gabi?" he calls. 

An exhausted, defeated sigh from a foot and a half away on the mess of tangled, rumpled, sweaty sheets that tonight have nothing to do with _a tussle between the sheets._ It's too hot to even consider _touching_, and the blankets and quilts are lying in a dejected heap on the floor.

"Yes?"

"You asleep?"

"Of course I'm asleep," she replies without a second of hesitation. "I just happen to be perfectly coherent."

A snort.

"You _just happen_ to be a real bitch."

"Sorry. It's the heat."

"I hear that. I think it's making me lose braincells. Why aren't we used to this?"

"We spent three years getting used to cold, snowy winters," she replies wearily.

"No way. I hated it; being freezing all the time, getting up at five-thirty every morning to help you scrape the frost off the car windows--"

"Did I ever thank you for that?"

"Don't worry, babe, we're good. But no way do I miss that place."

"Be that as it may, your body still probably thinks it should be huddling on a bearskin rug in front of a fireplace somewhere."

A long pause.

"Okay, so maybe that part was kind of nice," he admits grudgingly.

Another long pause.

"Buddy?"

"Yeah?"

"Last time I checked, the cottage still hadn't sold."

And another.

"Alright, but that rug better still be there."

* * *


	50. Wood

Wood

* * *

When he emerges from the shower one morning to find her clad in overalls, hair pulled back in a pert little ponytail, he stares and asks hesitantly, _what's with the new look?_

When she replies cheerfully, hiding her delight that she's made him curious enough to ask, that she's thinking of taking up carpentry as a hobby, his stare turns blank.

When she shows him the pictures and instructions for the pretty, dainty cradle that will be her first project, he stares even more blankly.

When she adds that she might have to take up knitting to supply some blankets to put in it, and thinks, satisfied, that he'll _have_ to catch on now, he unwittingly proves her wrong.

When she finally gives up on _hinting_ and spells it out for him, _B-A-B-Y, Y-O-U I-D-I-O-T_, he promptly passes out.

* * *


End file.
